


home is quite lovely, i hear

by windpipe



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Kissing, M/M, i can't believe i had it within me to write something this lemony 3yrs ago, that's it folks it's just two boys smoochaloochin'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:53:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24404599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windpipe/pseuds/windpipe
Summary: old oneshot from 2017.prompt: in-the-moment kiss.
Relationships: Akechi Goro & Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira
Comments: 2
Kudos: 55





	home is quite lovely, i hear

Making out with his soon-to-be-murderer wasn’t exactly on Akira Kurusu’s agenda - but it feels too good to stop. So he doesn’t.

Leblanc is quiet, save for the scraping of the barstool as Akechi backs up, letting more room appear between him and the counter for Akira to squeeze into. He’s got a thigh pressed up against Akechi’s knee in a way that’s making his whole leg go numb, but Akira’s quick to decide it’s worth it, if it means keeping the detective’s lips on his a moment longer.

There’s no hesitation between them. The kiss is long, dizzying - intoxicating, even. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Akira worries about how he’ll explain this mess if Sojiro - or, even worse,  _ Morgana  _ \- walks in on them; but it’s quickly silenced by the part of his mind that’s become more consumed with how unbelievably _ soft _ Akechi’s hair feels when he cards his fingers through it. Everywhere they meet, he can feel his nerves crackling: fireworks in his lips, his fingertips. It’s electrifying. It’s addictive.

The whine that builds in the back of Akechi’s throat only eggs him on. Somehow, Akira’s managed to press himself in closer - practically straddling the detective in his usual barstool seat in a desperate attempt to keep the warmth of his mouth on his. The kiss is pressing, dire - tugs at parts of Akira’s heart that haven’t ached since he left for Tokyo. It’s a despairing type of contact, the type that splits his skull with thoughts like  _ oh god, we’ve gone too far  _ and  _ oh god, we haven’t gone far enough. _ There’s a headache that pulses tirelessly between his ears, but it’s not unwelcome. If anything, it’s grounding; the pain reminds him that this is  _ real _ \- that this is  _ him  _ and  _ Akechi _ and they’re  _ actually doing this. _

Coming down isn’t an option; at least, not yet. Thinking about the aftermath of indulgence twists his gut in a way he doesn’t want to think about. He’s lightheaded, but faring fine - and he can only assume the same of the boy across from him. Akechi’s got a hand fisted into the fabric of his school uniform - the other clutching the counter - boxing Akira in as his lips travel elsewhere, breaking away from the detective’s lips and slipping over his jaw, kissing down, down, down his neck…

The moan Akechi lets out when Akira nibbles (tenderly, _never_ with the intention to hurt) at the junction between his neck and shoulder is _hot,_ and brings with it more imagery than Akira bargained for. It sends electricity down Akira’s spine, and he tries to laminate the memory - preserve it for later, when Akechi’s up and gone and he’s stuck watching the popcorn-ceiling of the Leblanc attic a little hopelessly, a little unsatisfied (Morgana’s made a habit of staying at Futaba’s ever since the summertime). He resists the urge to bite down and suck, but just barely. He wants to make Akechi his so, _so_ badly - but the cold reminder that he _can’t_ prowls restlessly in the pit of his stomach.

When he pulls away, it’s reluctant - but he needs to catch his breath. There’s something about Akechi’s disheveled look - the way his pupils are blown wide; the way his tie hangs loosely, almost undone, around the hollow of his throat; the way his hair follows the motions of where Akira’s hand had been moments before - that steals Akira’s breath away again, and he privately wonders if this boy will always keep his soul with him, if he’ll never get his oxygen back.

Akechi blinks - once, twice - before readjusting himself in the seat of the barstool. He looks around, as if only now realizing his surroundings. His quick, cold eyes catalog Akira’s proximity, the vice-grip he has on the innocent Leblanc counter, the emptiness of the café in Sojiro’s absence to buy more cigarettes. Akira thinks it’s adorable, relishes in the one moment that he’s able to see Akechi with all his walls finally  _ broken.  _ It’s amazing, entrancing - and he lets the thought that he now holds power over Akechi wash over him triumphantly - because he finally knows how to chip down his marble walls; knows that underneath the surface, there’s still some humanity there.

Akira likes to think that this power is safe with him.

“I…” Akechi stammers, uncertain of what to say. Conversation is a minefield now. Akira’s lips are swollen, and he swipes his tongue out to feel the unfamiliar puffiness. His lips taste like the other boy’s coffee: a light blend, with plenty of sugar.

Akira closes his eyes to the sensations. He knows what’s supposed to happen next. Knows Akechi is going to leave, because that’s just the type of person he is - even if Akira is desperate enough to hope he’s not.

“Thank you.” The sincerity catches Akira off-guard. Reopening his eyes, he feels his eyebrows draw together at the way Akechi’s cheeks are dusted with a pale pink. He looks almost… nervous?

It’s not the way your murderer is supposed to look at you, that’s for sure.

“Anytime.” Akira’s voice is surprisingly even, despite how erratic his breathing is. There’s a palpable sort of awkwardness that settles between them as Akechi smooths down his hair and readjusts his tie. Akira steps aside, giving the other boy room enough to slip out of his usual spot and stand, a little anxiously, near the telephone.

Akira pushes the barstool back into place, the scraping of the wood against the Leblanc tile stirring an odd emotion in his gut as he recalls the way Akechi pushed the thing back to let him in. He tries not to dwell on it as he looks back up to his company, who’s gathering his briefcase and trying to look anything but as embarrassed as Akira can tell he is. The blush - still lingering gingerly on the apples of his cheeks - gives it away.

He makes an effort to maintain eye-contact. “I’ll… see you soon.”

“Yeah,” Akira says, only slightly dazed. He waves as Akechi shows himself the door, stepping out into the cold November night. The sky is drizzling, and Akira wonders if his jacket is going to be enough (thoughts of the way the fabric felt under his roaming hands - how much he’d wanted to just peel it  _ off _ the detective - flash behind his eyelids), wonders if he has an umbrella tucked somewhere among the papers and whatever else he carries beneath thick, white metal and the letter ‘A’.

He sighs, settling back against the same barstool they occupied only moments ago. Some parts of the wood remain warm from groping hands. Akira’s given up on combating the way his blush crawls down the hem of his turtleneck.

He wonders when he’ll see Akechi next.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm also on [tumblr](http://boytroll.tumblr.com/)!


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